


Dreams & Other Drugs

by orphan_account



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Consensual Underage Sex, M/M, Not Canon Compliant, Pining, Self-Hatred
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-04
Updated: 2019-05-04
Packaged: 2020-02-23 18:48:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,912
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18707860
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: It’s both a warning and an invitation.





	Dreams & Other Drugs

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sleepsick](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sleepsick/gifts).



The first time they’re naked together—

-

Okay, the first time they’re naked together, really bared to each other, not just dicks frantically palmed over flies or mindless rutting under clothes, it’s—

-

Peter tells May he’s staying a week with Mr Stark to work on the suit. “Spider-business,” he says, faux-haughty, while May gives him a cocky curtsy, fond and exasperated. Tony lets Peter spin this particular yarn; it’s not a lie, not exactly, they really are going to run tests on the suit, optimise it - far easier with Peter in the room than Tony working from the delinquent memories of his hands on Peter’s body - but they both know the getaway has an—ulterior motive.

Tony had never minded going behind May’s back on superhero bullshit, but he feels like an asshole about this.

How about that.

Neither of them feel it pertinent to mention this isn’t going to be a field trip to the Avengers compound. Just Tony’s house. Rebuilt and re-equipped, transposed from Miami after being singularly blown up. It’s sleek but not seductive, a home instead of a bachelor pad. Peter knows Ms Potts had lived there for a good few years, until—until she left. It’s not Peter’s place to unearth gossip. She’s just not there anymore.

He does remember Tony being empty-eyed and short tempered for a while on the TV - post-Avenging interviews and blurry birds flipped to paparazzi - right around the time Peter was burgeoning through a second, abrupt puberty and becoming, you know, Spider-man. He met Tony for real not long after that.

And not long after _that_ , they—

It gets to half way through the trip and Tony hasn’t kissed Peter and Peter hasn’t been able to ask for it.

Listen, every time they’ve made out before it’s always been fraught, spur of the moment, nothing planned but plenty after for Tony to regret. Peter has a deep jolt of disappointment when Tony welcomes him in and takes his bags to one of multiple guest rooms, hotel-like, fancy and sterile. “Thanks, Mr Stark,” Peter stammers, “this is, wow, I mean, thank you—”

Tony’s hands on him while they’re calibrating the suit are clinical, professional, even if his tone is as breezy as ever. He doesn’t linger in Peter’s orbit too long, terrified of his gravity.

There is one moment over breakfast, Tuesday morning. Tony’s making espresso, Peter trying to remember which featureless cabinet’s hiding the cereal bowls. He’s still in his pyjamas, boxers and a 2014 science fair tee, and he feels a prickle not just on the nape of his neck, but on his arms and the backs of his knees too, like a sudden sweat. When he turns, Tony is watching him over the rim of his coffee cup with a piercing look in his eyes. A singular focus, an unconscious tilt to his lips. Peter wonders if he even knows how wanton he looks, and isn’t sure if he’s thinking of Tony or of himself.

He wants Tony to touch him and not feel shitty about it.

“Mr Stark—”

“Top left,” Tony says, blinking immediately. The gaze is gone. His brown eyes warm as Christmas Eve chestnuts. “And I have like, Fibre One or oatmeal. Outta luck on Lucky Charms. Do teenagers even eat Lucky Charms anymore?”

Peter eats his bran at the marble breakfast bar, and Tony doesn’t join him. Flitting through the room with the air of purpose and not really doing anything at all.

They work all day and at night watch _Jane the Virgin_ for two hours on Tony’s paper-thin 80” screen. His arm is slung over the back of the cushions, his fingers very close to the back of Peter’s neck. Peter’s boxers feel prickly against his thighs; against his crotch. They could just—

They could do what they’ve done before. Wrap clammy palms around each other’s dicks and come wordlessly, looking ahead, disconnected. But Tony’s avoidant for days whenever they do. Easy if there’s a team to attend, missions to figure out. Less so if it’s just him and Peter holed up on Tony’s turf.

Peter badly wants to jerk off that night, but feels crass doing it in someone else’s bed. What he really badly wants is for Tony to kiss him.

Technically if he ends up getting his dick sucked in Tony’s room, that’ll still be coming in someone else’s bed. But it won’t—

That wouldn’t feel as cringe-worthy. It would probably feel pretty fucking great.

-

Every morning like clockwork, Tony showers. En suite, a slick-tiled wet room. There’s no point in locking doors - Peter’s smart enough to pick through a safeguard if he puts his mind to it, and Tony has little to hide from the kid these days - so his bedroom door is always ajar. It’s both a warning and an invitation. Culpable deniability.

Peter stands at the threshold for a real long time, pyjama-clad again. His tee is sticking to his chest - adrenaline and fear make his spider-senses work overtime, make his skin tacky and damp - and he steels himself like he’s readying for a long-jump.

Takes a step in.

It smells like Tony’s cologne in here. Peter is immediately terrified that Friday will rat him out, a blaring intruder alarm or a whisper in Tony’s ear that he has an unwanted guest in his boudoir; but the rushing hiss of water from the en suite carries on uninterrupted. Brazenly, before cowardice catches up with him, Peter clambers up onto Tony’s unmade bed. King-size, probably more. Raised two steps up from the rest of the room, it feels like an island.

No man is an—

Except, sometimes Tony Stark—

Peter has his phone on him to keep his nervous hands busy while he waits. Flicks through the week’s messages from MJ that make him smile.

_so what’s the modern capitalist bourgeoisie aesthetic these days huh?_

_i think his couch is worth more than my apartment_

Then there’s nothing left to do but check CNN and Instagram for a minute or two. Friends, schoolmates; normal kids, normal lives, chilling out in backyards and bedrooms with Ariana Grande posters on the walls, fairy lights hung around bedsteads.

The shower shuts off cleanly, barely a stray drip.

Peter tucks his phone under the pillow, crosses his hands stiffly over his stomach, and tries to remember what breathing is.

When Tony pads, wet-footed, back into the room, he’s wearing a towel around his waist, tucked in at the hip, and nothing else. Peter, senses sharpened, clocks his blink, the microsecond of shock at seeing him, but can’t figure out whether it’s disappointment or displeasure or something else entirely.

“Wrong kind of underoos,” Tony says, feigning lightness. He heads to the wardrobe, sliding it open, making a play at normalcy.

“Mr Stark—”

Almost a flinch. “ _Really_ , kid?”

“Tony,” Peter breathes, scrambling to kneel up on the bed. It dwarfs him. Crisp white sheets that smell of Tony’s sweat, a familiar must after all their days down in the workshop.

Without asking if he should—

Without asking if he can, Peter starts pulling off his tee. Tosses it to the side, feels bad for a split-second about making a mess, then tugs off his loose boxers. It’s all he’s wearing. Not exactly a strip-tease, but nonetheless, he’s stripped.

Tony’s stare is dark. Not particularly happy. And Peter forces himself to meet it.

There’s a long, unfathomable silence. “What do you think you want here, Parker?” Tony says slowly.

“I don’t know,” Peter admits, careful about his honesty. “I just—I just wanna touch you, Mr Stark.”

The tension in Tony’s shoulders drops. He seems—resigned. Peter hates that. He wants Tony to be—excited, horny, whatever. A second or two long and he’d have felt awkward and chilly, would have slid off the bed and found his stupid boxers, four years old and fading in the ass, a walk of shame before anything has ever happened, but—

But Tony makes a kind of frustrated _tsk_ noise in the back of his mouth and then, without fuss, takes the towel from around his waist. Folds it over his arm but there’s no superfluous furniture in here to hang it on the back of, so he tosses it back inside the too-warm bathroom. Slides the door closed.

Goes to Peter on the bed.

Sits, with Peter, on the bed—

Peter’s comfortable with his body in a way that most kids his age would envy. He knows exactly what every muscle in every limb is capable of. He doesn’t shy away from Tony, couldn’t avert his gaze if he was bribed fifty bucks to do it. Just seems—awed. Tony lets him look and feels haggard. He’s not out of shape, far from it, but he hasn’t been Peter’s age in a long, long time. He’s covered in nicks and scars - the ugly gaping slit in the middle of his chest, from when the arc reactor was a necessity and not a choice, has long since been smoothed over and he’s never claimed not to be a vain man - but his suit never seemed entirely able to protect him, body and soul, no matter the hours he puts into tweaks and augmentation. He hopes he does a better job with Peter’s. Hopes he doesn’t have to look, in a few years time, at the scars life has left on Peter’s body.

Peter’s eyes flicker all over him, wide and reverent. His mouth is open, quite unconscious.

“Not exactly a peak specimen,” Tony says to break the silence.

Peter shakes his head - whether his disagrees or doesn’t care, he never clarifies. “Please can I—?” he begs.

“What? Can you what? Tell me what you wanna.”

“I just—” Peter says, almost upset. “I want to be with you, Mr Stark.”

“I’m gonna need you to stop saying that, okay, kid?”

Peter swallows thickly and shuffles forward an inch or two, until their bare knees are touching. Summons some kind of confidence from the pit of his stomach. “I’ll—I’ll call you Tony if you quit calling me _kid._ ”

“No deal,” Tony says at once, turning away. Just his head, not his body. Still touching. “It’s keeping me humble.”

While he’s not looking—

He’s not looking, and Peter reaches out and grabs his wrists. Tony smothers a jolt. He can feel the strength in Peter’s palms, constantly moderated, his viscid fingers pulling at the hair on Tony’s forearms.

“Please can I kiss you?” Peter whispers, swaying in.

It was always night-time before. Twilight or later, as if to blind Tony to what they were doing. This is a soft dawn, light filtered through his frosted windows, illuminating the white bedsheets and Peter’s pale, freckled skin. This isn’t like any of the times before, those frantic, harried trysts, over before they could feel the weight of what they were doing: Peter’s hand shoved up Tony’s shirt for a desperate glimpse of his skin, not this languid, opportunistic moment. Nothing slow.

This, now, is slow.

Peter’s involuntary keening, throaty and thin. His lips against Tony’s mouth over and over. His body unable to keep still, kneeling up and pressing against Tony, broad-ish chest, muscled thighs, bony shins.

Tony rubs his hand, very unhurried, up and down Peter’s warm leg. And then - one more of those resigned sighs - slips across his thigh and under his dick, finding him already hard, and sees to it.

-

“Mr Stark—” Peter breathes out, in the seconds before he comes.

  
  



End file.
